


One-shot Playlist Adventures

by shutter_waves_break



Series: Fanmix Playlist Fics [1]
Category: Dark Knight Rises (2012), Supernatural, Teen Wolf (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst with a Happy Ending, Daddy Derek, Derek Needs To Use His Words, Domestic Fluff, I honestly have no idea how else to tag this, Insecure Stiles, Kid!Fic, M/M, Oblivious Stiles, Older Siblings Dean Winchester and Sam Winchester, One-Sided Attraction, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Personal fanmix playlist, Post-Apocalypse, Professor!Coulson, Sam and Dean grow old together, Sam and Dean train horses, Sexual Tension, Stalker!Barsad (but not really), Student!Barton, ranchers, series of One-shots, squint to see the wincest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-14
Updated: 2017-06-13
Packaged: 2018-01-08 16:54:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1135137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shutter_waves_break/pseuds/shutter_waves_break
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of one-shot fics spread out over a variety of fandoms based off a random playlist I compiled. Mostly M/M with a dash of het here and there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Red

**Author's Note:**

> Derek could feel the fluttering heartbeat that was so Stiles trying to regain its normal erratic rhythm. He knew his own beat hard against his ribcage, but for different reasons.
> 
> Inspired by Ivy Levan's "Red". 
> 
> Un-beta'd except for what I proofread.

There wasn’t anything beautiful or magical about it. Not the way Stiles imagined it would be.  

No, this way was better. Definitely absolutely better. 

Because it hurt. Deep in his bones and deeper still into his organs, seeping into his bloodstream until all he could see were the stars in front of his face obscuring his vision.  

Not that he needed to see anyway. The room was already dark, save for the small filtering of light coming in from the window. He kept his eyes open anyway because nothing beat the glow of the eyes that occasionally came into his line of sight.  

He didn’t need to see because he could _feel_ the sweat-slick skin sliding against his own, the rough damp hair he clutched between his fingers, the blunt human teeth dragging at his pulse points, and the growl that resonated every time he arched up into that hot mouth.  

The first time, the second time, the fifth eighth eleventh times, every single time thereafter: it got better every. single. time.  

“I told you to stop moving.” The command was punctuated by a hard thrust, knocking Stiles against the headboard. Again.  

Before he could respond, the hands that had been gripping his thighs wrapped themselves around his frame and pulled him up, putting him face to face with those eyes.  

“I was always - fuck - shit at following instructions,” he panted, tilting his head back to allow the lengthening canines access to his neck. The act earned him a soft whimper before a rough tongue made contact with his skin. Stiles was out of his skin, out of his mind. The cock-ring he had been made to wear felt tighter in this position and he wanted nothing more than to get a hand on himself to ease the pain.  

“I told you no touching.” Sharp nails tempted breaking the skin on his back. Stiles nodded and rocked his hips down, tightening his grip on the broad shoulders.   

“No, no touching.” He couldn’t breathe, didn’t want to breathe. “Just - please… Please…” He didn’t really know what he wanted, only that he needed. “I need…” 

“You need what?” A sharp thrust up as the nails receded and the motion stopped altogether. “You. Need. What?” 

Stiles looked into those glowing eyes. “You.” 

The wall wasn’t designed to yield like the mattress, and the second Stiles’ back slammed up against the drywall, he felt it give at the combined body weight. All at once the thick heat surged up into him as strong hands pinned his wrists above his head, barely giving Stiles time to situate his legs around the trim waist to keep himself from sliding.  

Not that he had to worry about going anywhere. He was perfectly ok with this. Being taken apart in every painfully beautiful way by this man.   

The growl came back, but this time it was deeper and more urgent sounding. Stiles wanted to cum, wanted the cock-ring off, and wanted one of those hands that weren’t his to wrap around his dick. He knew better than to ask though, so instead he let his head thud back against the wall and willed his lungs to fill with air.  

The bones in his wrists ground together and the strong hips urged a brutal pace and that beautiful pain extended its fingers around Stiles’ core.  

“You’re so goddamn-“ The hips stuttered and one hand gripped Stiles’ hip, holding him steady. A sting brought Stiles’ face down to eye level with the glowing eyes and he knew when this was all over he would have five puncture marks within the hand shaped bruise. The thought led to a shudder as he waited for the end of the sentence.  

“So goddamn perfect like this…” The gritted teeth didn’t lessen the declaration and suddenly there wasn’t enough air in the room.  

He hadn’t been expecting that. Not now. Not ever. Especially not like this.  

And yet… 

“I just want to carve a space out inside you, just for me…” 

…Stiles wanted _this._ Wanted needed craved desired.  

Stiles didn’t recognize the sounds spilling out of his mouth until blunt teeth dug into his lower lip and he moaned, closing his eyes against the sensation because now it was too much to handle. The mouth pulled away and dragged its way up to Stiles’ ear. 

“I want to _own_ you…” 

His eyes flew open. “ _Please… Derek…_ ”  

Stiles wasn’t sure if it was the declaration, the sound of the cock-ring clattering on the floor, the rough hand wrapping around his dick, the sight of elongated canines and red eyes, or a combination of all of the above that sent him over the edge. He’d think about it later, if his brain ever regained its sense.  

 

\- - - - - 

 

They both sat in the same spot trying to catch their breath. Derek could feel the fluttering heartbeat that was so Stiles trying to regain its normal erratic rhythm. He knew his own beat hard against his ribcage, but for different reasons. So he rested his face against Stiles’ neck and concentrated on the quiet moments before Stiles signaled he wanted to get up.  

“I swear, if this keeps up I may just give up on leaving your apartment at all.” Lips pressed against his temple, not quite kissing but not quite resting. He wanted to tilt his head and catch that pink mouth with his own.  

He wanted to carry Stiles into his bed and tell him he didn’t have to leave.  

He wanted to tell Stiles what was becoming increasingly more painful to keep hidden.  

The pack was on the fringes - they began to see the slow destruction, how Stiles methodically tore Derek apart only to put him back together. Scott didn’t approve, but he never said a word to Stiles. Isaac wanted to speak, but one hard look from Derek kept him quiet.  

“Hey, you ok?” 

His claws retracted and he noticed the gouges in the floor.  

“Yeah.” He shifted his position and looked into the hazel eyes he wanted to avoid. “Do you have to leave now?” He winced at his words; they sounded needy and betrayed the careful facade he’d tried so hard to maintain.  

Stiles shrugged and began to stand up. “Mind if I shower?” He asked, already making his way into the bathroom.  

He didn’t respond, opting instead to put on his sweatpants and retreat to the kitchen to stare at the contents of his fridge. Or his cabinets. Or the floor.  

He didn’t notice the silence in his space until Stiles stood in front of him, fully dressed with his hands in his pockets. Out of his pockets. In his pockets. Fumbling with his phone. In his pockets.  

“When do you go back to school?” The question came out unbidden.  

Stiles’ face dropped for a split second and maybe…  

“Not for another couple of weeks. I only just got home a few days ago, remember?” 

He did remember. Vividly. Stiles smelled like university and all Derek wanted to do was scrub it out of him. So far, he had. Only because Stiles had let him.  

“Yo, did you hear me?” 

He blinked and let his eyes regain focus. “What?” 

“I said,” Stiles punctuated with a step further into his space. “Do you want to catch a movie tomorrow night?” 

He wanted to throw Stiles out of his house. He wanted to wrap his hands around the slender neck and squeeze until the breath left his lungs. He wanted to remove Stiles from his life so he could regain some control over himself.  

Or he could grab him and kiss him the way he wanted to every time he showed up at his apartment, begging to be taken apart by his skilled hands when it was Derek who lost himself in every way possible to this boy with the hazel eyes and pink mouth.  

But Stiles didn’t want tenderness so he didn’t even try. Instead, he gave everything he could in hopes that Stiles would open his eyes and _see._  

He sighed, resigned. There was no middle ground.  

“You don’t have to if you don’t want. I just figured that-“ 

“Yes.” 

The smile that broke out on Stiles’ face hurt more than Derek expected. He’d seen Stiles smile hundreds of times but this time felt different. Because no one else got to see it. Because this moment was his.  

At least that’s what his brain told him after he realized he was pressing Stiles against the counter with his tongue in Stiles’ mouth. He reeled back and tried to figure out what he could say -  

And then Stiles pulled him back in.  

“I thought we were past this,” he said, before pressing his lips against Derek’s again. “I mean, seriously…” 

Derek should fight this and demand an explanation for the sudden change in Stiles’ demeanor.  

“Maybe if you pulled your head out of your ass and actually _listened_ , you would already know.” 

This time, Derek pulled his head back without breaking bodily contact in case this was a twisted dream. “Know what?” 

Stiles’ hands curled into Derek’s sides, clutching in an almost frantic way that made Derek believe Stiles needed this as much as Derek craved it.  

Instead of answering his question, Stiles smirked. “But you’re on the right track.” This time, Stiles kissed him softly, almost reverently. 

And Derek, he stopped fighting.


	2. Sinister Kid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The downside to enrolling in university again was the amount of youth around him. Here he was, 32 years old with a solid career in security systems (Security was easier to explain than Military and Defense Contracting), sitting in an auditorium full of people almost all of whom were under 24 years old.
> 
> Or- The one where Clint Barton enrolls in a Philosophy class so he can get his Graduate degree and meets Dr Phil Coulson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by The Black Keys 'Sinister Kid'

Clint Barton sat at his desk in the small auditorium and counted the minutes until the professor arrived. His desk was actually less of a desk and more like a long curved table that spanned the width of the room save for a stepped, two foot walkway on each side. The auditorium angled up from the pit where the professor would stand (when she finally arrived) to teach the class of thirty about philosophy. 

Philosophy: a general education requirement Barton got out of when he got his Bachelors almost ten years ago. It was either this or Sociology, and based off his previous experience in high school with the class, he really did not want to spend sixteen weeks in a class designed solely for the purpose of figuring out why people acted the way they did in the groups they chose to be a part of. Besides, he met the Sociology professor when he was signing up for classes and no. Just, no. The last thing he wanted was a neoliberal, ultra-feminist woman in her mid-fifties who recently discovered she was a lesbian with a twenty-some year old girlfriend disapproving of his military background because she deeply mistrusted the government when it came to protecting the people. Barton wanted to point out that for a Sociology professor she was very narrow-minded and judgmental, but was saved when his phone rang at the same time a student tripped into the registrar’s office, spilling his coffee all over the floor. 

So Philosophy it was. 

And the professor was already late on the first day. 

Well, technically, she wasn’t late. Barton shifted in his seat, turning slightly to look at the clock on the back wall: 0848. His ‘fifteen minutes early or you’re late’ did not apply to civilians, but it didn’t stop him from bouncing his knee as he surveyed the rest of the class. The downside to enrolling in university again was the amount of youth around him. Here he was, 32 years old with a solid career in security systems (Security was easier to explain than Military and Defense Contracting), sitting in an auditorium full of people almost all of whom were under 24 years old. 

The four girls sitting two rows ahead of him and to the right kept finding reasons to turn around and ‘look at the clock’ (at him), and then proceed to giggle, and not nearly as quietly as they no doubt imagined they were being. 

_Five minutes to the hour._  

He should not have listened to Natasha when she told him to wear the outfit he typically wore on ‘one night stand’ nights for the first day of class. She rationalized that the jeans made his ass look good and, since his teacher was a woman and might be hot, then he could make a great first impression. Nevemind that Barton wasn’t strictly into women, but it had been a long time since he’d crossed paths with a man that he wanted to take home for the night. 

It didn’t matter though because Barton really should not have listened to Natasha. It wasn’t like he needed to look good for the class, even if his teacher was ridiculously attractive, because he was intelligent enough to pass a general education requirement class. That, and he wasn’t exactly used to actually having to sit while wearing them. And the class was 90 minutes long. _Thanks, Natasha._  

_Four minutes_. 

Barton tapped his foot to the seconds as they passed and picked up his pen, drowning out the murmurs around him. 

If I stop paying attention, will the class go on without me? 

_Three minutes._

“Good morning, class. I apologize for the late arrival, but rest assured it will not happen again.” 

Barton’s eyes shot up as a man a few years older than him walked in and draped his trenchcoat over the tall chair behind the podium. When he looked up, his eyes caught Barton’s and he felt himself sit up a little bit straighter. Something about him communicated ‘military precision’ and Barton determined this man was not one accustomed to being late. Ever. 

“My name is Dr Phil Coulson, and I will be your Philosophy professor for the next sixteen weeks. I know your schedule says ‘Margret White’, but given circumstances outside of everyone’s control, she will not be teaching this year.” 

Barton detected an almost imperceptible twitch in his face as he said it, like having to teach this class desperately inconvenienced him. 

“Some of you I recognize,” Dr Coulson’s eyes flickered across everyone’s face like he was already committing them to memory and a few giggles bubbled forth from the group of girls at the front. “While some of you, I do not. But have no fear, by next week no one will be able to fly under the radar in this class.” 

His eyes rested on Barton’s again. Barton did not have a small knot forming in his stomach. He was 32 years old. He was a professional. 

“First, role call. Say ‘here’ when called upon. This will be the last time role call happens since it wastes my time and yours. I will not be held responsible if you do not show up to class since you are all adults, and MY responsibility lies in teaching the material as outlined by the course requirements and objective. But YOU are responsible for learning the material, and subsequent exams and assignments.” 

From out of nowhere, Dr Coulson produced a flashdrive and a piece of paper with handwritten names in neat rows. 

“Barton, Clint.” 

“Present.” _Aaaaand of course_. 

Their eyes locked again. 

Dr Coulson’s lips twitched briefly before scanning his face once again. Like he _knew_. 

The rest of the names went smoothly, and Barton felt himself committing names to voices and locations in the room. And he noticed Dr Coulson doing the same thing. There were two stragglers who, upon noticing who was standing at the front of the class, promptly sat down while apologizing for being late. Clearly, this Dr Phil Coulson had a reputation. 

“Next is an important announcement: the syllabus has changed since the instructor has changed. I assume you all can read so I am not going to go over it verbatim.” He flicked off the lights in front of the projection screen and pulled up the syllabus online.  

“It can be found online on the Blackboard website under this class so print it out if you wish to have a hard copy, but do read it since it pertains information regarding exams and assignments I will not harp upon in class. My office is not within this building, and I do not keep normal office hours like other professors. I also do not have an office phone. If you want to schedule an appointment, email is the best way to get in contact with me. I check my email frequently and respond promptly, but do not expect me to respond to an email sent in the wee morning hours regarding an assignment due the following class period. If you do not have a response within six hours, forward the email again so I know you tried at least twice. There may be times I am unavailable, but I will make an announcement beforehand if that is the case.” 

Barton scribbled down as Dr Coulson talked. He really didn’t need to but it gave him something to focus on other than the way the suit he wore was cut too perfectly to be bought off the rack in a men’s clothing store. Or the way his posture and voice commanded the attention of everyone in the room. In the brief pauses between his talking, Barton hadn’t noticed that the room was completely silent save for the dull tick of the clock. 

“Highlights: you will have five written exams and the final is cumulative.” 

A collective groan echoed throughout the class. Barton rolled his eyes. They probably didn’t realize that cumulative was easier than just being tested on sections, and written meant being allowed to use any and all information. Multiple choice limited responses to what the teacher thought was the right answer and brooked little room for debate. To his credit, Dr Coulson didn’t flinch or change his inflection as he continued. 

“There are three papers this semester as well, and the first one is due next month. The prompts are on the syllabus, which is another reason to read it. Three unexcused absences will amount to a full letter grade drop from your final grade, and seven missed classes will mean your being dropped and a failing grade. I do not care if you have a perfect score in the class, which will undoubtedly be impossible if you miss seven classes. Excused absences require prior notification with a note from VALID parties as to WHY you will be absent. Emergencies and sudden illness are different, but a valid excuse will be necessary. Please take me seriously when I say this as there are bound to be at least two of you who do not.”

Barton watched his eyes scan the room with intense purpose, like he already knew who the students would be that would push the envelope. The class hadn’t even officially started yet and Barton was having a hard time sitting still in his seat. This was not how this class was supposed to go. He was supposed to have an attractive female professor, not some well-dressed, articulate, disturbingly sensual male professor who had the potential to see right through him. 

He really hated Natasha for telling him to wear this outfit. 

“Final note, and this is important because it involves your grades: I read and annotate your papers as if they are graduate assignments but I will grade you like undergraduates. However, if you are a graduate student,” Barton swallowed thickly as Dr Coulson paused, knowing full well he was the ONLY graduate student in the class. “You will be graded like an graduate student despite this being an undergraduate class. There may also be additional requirements not on the syllabus, but I have yet to determine what those will be.” 

When their eyes met again, Barton absolutely did not flex his thighs and zipper of his jeans became obscenely tight underneath the desk. And his cheeks definitely did not burn under the intensity of _his male professor’s_ gaze.

“I will send out an email with the finalized requirements tomorrow.” The way he said it made Barton feel like he previously had a plan but decided to revise it for reasons unknown to him. He wasn’t really sure that Philosophy was the way to go anymore. 

The eye contact was broken before he could have a coherent thought that didn’t involve getting _his professor_ out of that immaculately cut suit. 

“Any questions?” 

Thankfully, one of the girls at the front raised her hand. “Is there extra credit?” 

The slight change in subject allowed Barton to breathe as Dr Coulson turned his attention to the group and smiled in an almost fatherly type way. 

“No.” 

Barton could _FEEL_ the room deflate at the straightforward response and he chuckled softly. 

“Something amusing, Mr Barton?” 

_Strike two._ He sat up abruptly. “No sir.” To their credit, no one else in the class chuckled. 

“Good. Any other questions?” Pause. “No? Alright then. Let’s get started.” Dr Coulson proceeded to remove his suit jacket, revealing his crisp white dress shirt. As he leaned over to elegantly drape it over his coat, Barton noticed it was also impeccably pressed _AND FITTED_ , and despite the undershirt he wore, how it did nothing to conceal the shift of muscle underneath. It took every ounce of self control for him not press the heel of his hand against his zipper, but it didn’t stop him from subconsciously rolling his tongue across his lower lip before pulling it into his mouth at the exact second Dr Coulson focused on the class and, by some cruel design, on Barton. 

Dr Coulson’s eyes flickered to his mouth and back up to eyes. Barton felt heat creep up his neck and start to color his face, but could not bring himself to break the contact. Based on how Dr Coulson gripped the portable mouse in his hand, he guessed that maybe the flawless professor harbored impure thoughts. 

The moment broke when a chair creaked loudly in the back, and Dr Coulson turned his attention to the rest of the class as he began his lecture on the history of philosophy starting with the Pre-Socratics. 

Barton let his hand float over the pages of his notebook, writing in shorthand so he could focus on the way Dr Coulson spoke. When he glanced up again, his eyes locked onto the way his professor’s thumb rolled over the clicker on the portable mouse and his leg bounced up, hitting the underside of the table hard enough that it jostled the Tervis mug of the guy sitting almost six seats away from him. 

“Everything alright, Mr Barton?” Dr Coulson asked. 

Before he could respond, his professor _licked his lower lip_ in a completely natural way. ‘Natural’ being the operative word since no one else seemed to notice because they were too busy staring at the guy who managed to get attention called to himself. 

“Yea- Yes. Leg spasm,” he said, rubbing his knee while trying to maintain whatever was left of his dignity. 

Dr Coulson acknowledged his excuse despite seeming to know it was complete bullshit. Without missing a beat, he picked up where he left off like nothing happened. 

Barton dropped his head to his paper, hoping and praying that no one noticed the scarlet blush that had to be covering every inch of visible skin. 

This was definitely going to be a long semester. And Barton figured he might need to plead with his professor for extra credit if things kept up the way they were. 

He let the lecture float over him and didn’t realize class was over until he was on his second page of notes and the other students were getting up from their seats. Dr Coulson stood at the front of the class shutting down the electronics and gathering his things when Barton reached the pit. 

“You’re my only graduate student.” 

Barton waited for the people in the hallway to move away from the door before turning to face him. 

“Yes, sir.” 

Dr Coulson leaned over the podium to withdraw the flashdrive from the monitor. Barton did not look at the way his pants hugged everything from the waist down like a sinful- 

“-Later today to discuss the additional requirements for this semester.” 

When he looked up, Dr Coulson was looking at him with an amused smile playing at the left side of his mouth. 

“Huh?” He was literally one step away from a caveman at this point.  

“I said, if you have time since you’re my only graduate student, I’d like you to come by my office later today to discuss the additional requirements for this semester.” 

Barton found himself nodding his head before all the words processed in his brain. “Any time is fine. What time would be good for me to come by?” He wanted to smack himself for how eager he sounded. He was not some 18-year old frat guy with a hard-on for his teacher. Because being a 32-year old man with a hard-on for his teacher was even better. Which brought his attention back to the fact his jeans were ridiculously tight because _‘Thank you, Natasha’_. 

Dr Coulson seemed to notice his ‘dilemma’, which did not make his ‘dilemma’ go away. At all. Instead… 

“Come by around 1700. My day will be over by then so we won’t be interrupted.” The smile playing at his professor’s mouth coupled with the tone of his voice made the small knot in Barton’s stomach turn into something hot that coiled around his lower spine. 

“Yes, sir.” He desperately wanted to leave the room to go relieve the tension building in his system, but felt the need to wait to be dismissed, as though leaving without permission would be insulting. Dr Coulson must have sensed his hesitation because he stopped what he was doing and simply stared at him. Barton felt his entire life spill out onto the tacky blue carpet for his professor to pick over and judge. He waited because he wasn’t sure if he should speak, or if he should wait to be spoken to. After thirty seconds, he hedged his bets. 

“Was there anything else, sir?” 

That earned him a smile Barton didn’t realize he was waiting for. 

“No. That’s all. You may go.” 

“Thank you, sir.” As he turned to go, he glanced at the clock and realized he would be late to his next class. _Great._ Before he reached the door, his professor spoke again. 

“Oh, and Mr. Barton, if you wish to earn some sort of extra credit opportunities in this class, my suggestion to you is not to do anything I may disapprove of prior to our appointment this afternoon.” 

Barton didn’t need to ask what that meant. 

He also didn’t know why he knew exactly what that meant. 

He also heard the unspoken promise of punishment should he disappoint this man he just met and hardly knew who had the ability to read Barton like an open book. 

Satisfied he was far enough away from the open door and alone in the hallway, he pressed his palm against his throbbing erection for the first time since Dr Phil Coulson walked into the classroom. 

He really needed to thank Natasha. 


	3. Somebody's Watching Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blake wakes up in his apartment and finds an intruder. 
> 
> Set in Gotham during Bane's occupation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from Warmen "Somebody's Watching Me". Original by Rockwell.

Blake startled awake when the prickling sensation of eyes on his exposed form pulled him out of sleep.  

“What-“ he started for his gun when he realized who was sitting at the end of his bed. He resisted the urge to rub sleep out of his eyes, but his hand hovered over the grip of his handgun underneath his pillow. “What’re you doing here?” 

Blake thought it was a valid question considering the fact Gotham was under martial law. He didn’t believe he was on any immediate ‘hit list’ for Bane’s crew, but given this unexpected visit, Blake started to rethink his situation.  

The man shrugged. “I needed a place to hole up for a minute. Some activity outside- don’t want to get picked off for being careless.” 

Blake knew an embellishment when he heard one. If this was a normal patrol, then he wouldn’t be alone.  

“You’re one of Bane’s best.  I think you can handle ‘some activity’.” 

Barsad shifted, suddenly uncomfortable sitting in Blake’s room in the middle of the night, at the end of Blake’s bed.  

The ironic gentleness of the lights coming from outside revealed a small blush rising on the mercenary’s cheeks.  

“I didn’t want to go back yet, figured I’d kill a little time here.” A smirk tugged at his lips.  

“Pleasant word choice,” Blake responded, feeling like a dog with a bone. “How did you know where I lived?” He sat up more, sliding his hand away from the gun as he leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees, letting the sheets drop down to his waist. He did not miss the flicker of dark eyes.  

“People talk.” Barsad stood abruptly, rifle in a low carry. There was an agitated gait to his pacing.  

“And you listened.” Blake didn’t move- he was fully aware Barsad would leave and take this information to Bane. Blake would become nothing more than a memory in a heartbeat.  

When Barsad met his eyes though, he knew Bane’s right hand man wouldn’t do anything to endanger the rogue officer.

An awkward silence passed between them. A spotlight passed over his window and illuminated the quiet figure. Neither displayed concern.  

“So, um,” Blake started, shifting his body to place his feet on the worn carpet. “Can I get you a cup of coffee or something?” As he made to stand, he became keenly aware of the fact he wasn’t wearing anything other than his boxers.  

“No-“ 

Blake felt his shoulders drop.  

“I mean-“ Barsad stepped forward. “I shouldn’t have just-“ 

“No, it’s fine.” Blake winced at how quickly the words came. “It’s not a big deal. Better you than someone who would have tried to kill me.” 

Even in the poor lighting, Barsad’s eyes looked sad.  

“But I have, in the past…” Then his hands tightened around his weapon, like a reminder to himself of his status, of who he was and what he could do. “I still could.”  

Blake let a hand run through his hair, pulling at the roots to make himself remember who he was and who his enemies were. When he looked back, Barsad stood barely an arm’s length away from him. The man was stealthy, moreso than Blake gave him credit for. That line he created separating friend from foe blurred each passing moment. 

It was either courage or stupidity that brought Blake’s hand up to touch the one resting on the handgrip of the rifle, the one with the finger hovering over trigger.  

“But you won’t…” It wasn’t a question, but he didn’t presume to make the decision for him; it was hopeful.  

Barsad didn’t break the contact and continued holding his eyes. Blake didn’t need the verbal confirmation. This was enough. 

He opened his mouth to speak when a rough finger found the corner of his mouth and traced a path to the pout of his lower lip.  

It shouldn’t have been as comforting as it was considering the fact his flat had been broken into by Bane’s mercenary who watched him sleep for who knows how long before Blake roused. Not to mention the fact HE KNEW WHERE Blake was living, which was a feat in itself considering how often he moved around. But when he thought about it, Bane and his troupe of assassins made it their job to know everything that went on wherever they occupied. Gotham would be no different. Having the realization of being under surveillance all but confirmed made Blake uneasy, if not terrified. 

“No, spideog beag…” It was almost a whisper. “You have nothing to fear…” _not from me._ The last part went unsaid, but Blake heard it. He tipped his head into the palm resting against his cheek, the thumb still applying gentle pressure to his lower lip. He let his own hand curl around the mercenary’s trigger hand, not out of fear but out of comfort.  

It would be a cliche to say loneliness began creeping in again now that Gotham had fallen, wrapping itself around his chest and pulling him into its darkness. But Blake needed to ground himself; he needed an anchor.  

Barsad must have sensed the desperation building in Blake: he took his hand off the weapon and moved it behind his back, leaving nothing between them.  

“Go back to sleep… You need rest…” The words were as gentle as the motion pushing Blake back onto his bed. His hand involuntary clenched at the fabric of the mercenary’s arm.  

“Don’t go yet. Please.” 

He didn’t get a response as the sheets came up around him, albeit awkwardly since Blake couldn’t let go of Barsad’s arm, afraid he would disappear if he let go, if he stopped watching. His eyes started to feel dry and his eyelids threatened to fall. A solid weight positioned itself on the bed and leaned against the headboard. Blake instinctively wrapped an arm around the thigh, pressing his nose into the rough cargo material. A hand brushed over his cheek, his hair. He tried to push himself closer despite the fatigue settling into his bones.  

“…Stay…” 

The hand froze momentarily before it continued running through his hair, down the nape of his neck, and back up again.  

“Anything you wish…” But Blake was already asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> spideog beag: 'little robin' (Gaelic)


	4. My Lagan Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles had been looking forward to a long weekend in the mountains with Derek. And then fate intervened because this was Stiles' life. 
> 
> Or, the one where Stiles and Derek have to babysit Laura's baby for the weekend and things come to a head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from Celtic Woman, "My Lagan Love"

The Friday afternoon Stiles envisioned when he woke up in the morning did not turn into the Friday afternoon unfolding before him. Instead of being half-way to the long weekend he and Derek had planned several weeks ago, he currently sat on his couch playing video games with Scott and watching Derek play with Laura’s little girl. 

“Dude, you keep getting shot at. If you’d rather be over there on the floor-“

“No, sorry, it’s cool. Seeing Derek play with a small child rather than eat it is kind of … jarring.”

Scott paused the game and arched an eyebrow in his direction. “What?”

Stiles rolled his eyes and looked back over at Derek, who currently lay on his back and let a 14-month old baby werewolf crawl all over him. The look of complete tranquility and happiness hit Stiles with something he wasn’t consciously aware of but suddenly made itself quite comfortable at the forefront of his mind. He opened his mouth to make a snarky remark about how some animals eat their young to try and shake himself out of it when Derek caught his gaze as he picked up Vanessa and held her over his head, much to her incoherent squeals of delight. Stiles closed his mouth and turned back to the big screen. 

“Nothing. Let’s just kill some bi-“

“Stiles, watch your mouth.” Laura materialized out of nowhere and smacked the back of his head. “We’re almost ready to head out. Did you need anything else before we go?”

_Yes, take your child to someone else so I can get the weekend I’ve been waiting for._ Stiles rubbed the back of his head as he resolutely kept his mouth closed.

Stiles wasn’t upset about the change in plans. He wasn’t. 

Okay, maybe a little bit. 

And by a little, he means a lot. 

Both he and Derek had been working really hard lately with little time solely to themselves and they made plans to get time away from everyone and everything. Stiles made sure he would not have any major projects at the lab, and Derek owned his own garage so taking time off was no problem considering how he virtually never took time off. He said it didn’t create a good work ethic for his employees to follow. Stiles said he was just a workaholic, which Derek threw back at him. 

So they were both at fault. But this change in plans was completely unfair and uncalled for. Not to mention it was completely Derek’s fault, and Laura’s because SHE KNEW about their plans but made no effort to remind them of this babysitting gig Derek so totally and completely forgot about until the morning they were supposed to leave on their magical vacation to the mountains. 

He must have zoned out again because his controller vibrated signaling his death. Again. 

“Wow, Stiles. Normally you’re top ranking at this. Something bothering you?”

Laura had a bad habit of putting his business in the open. He was afraid to look at Derek because he knew what he would see. 

\- - - - 

_Stiles lay in bed thrumming with anticipation over their upcoming trip: a secluded cabin in the mountains with lake access. The clock on the nightstand read 8:30am. In two hours, he and Derek would be on the road to a weekend of loud, soul-crushing, coma-enducing sex. The thought of having Derek all to himself for the first time in what felt like ages sent a rush of blood to Stiles’ dick. Now if only he had a particular pair of hands to help him relieve-_

_The sound of the bedroom door opening all the way and the soft footsteps made Stiles turn his attention to the fully-clothed and showered werewolf sporting a concerned and guilty look on his face._

_Stiles sat up. He knew that look all too well._

_“Um… Do I even want to ask?”_

_The silence that came from the general direction of Derek did nothing to quell the growing sense of despair and disappointment he felt he was about to experience._

_Derek shifted awkwardly before taking the final steps to the bed and sitting down._

_“So, you remember when I mentioned Laura asking me to babysit Vanessa because she and Paul had to go to a conference in San Francisco?”_

_THIS WAS NOT HAPPENING. SO COMPLETELY NOT HAPPENING._

_His face must have reflected every emotion associated with disappointment that Derek closed his mouth and stood up. Stiles sat on the bed staring at his retreating figure, unable to make words come out of his mouth because if they did, they would not be pretty._

_As Derek pulled the door closed, he added quietly,“They’ll be here with Vanessa in about a half hour.” So you might want to shower and get dressed before they get here, went unsaid._

_When the door finally closed, Stiles dropped his head into his hands, determined not to let the bitter tears of sorrow and dismay fall from his eyes._

\- - - - 

So Stiles ended up calling Scott because he knew Allison was out of town with her dad at some hunter meeting and had no plans. Plus, he really didn’t trust himself to be alone with Derek until his anger and irritation dissipated. Killing things on the big screen television helped a little. He hadn’t had the opportunity to call the company who owned the cabin despite knowing they would lose their deposit; it just seemed like the polite thing to do to at least give them the heads up in case someone else wanted the weekend because someone else had the time for it. 

Stiles was ready to make an excuse about how he had a project at work that was driving him crazy, something about genetics and chromosome manipulation, when Paul walked into the room holding a bottle. He looked at Derek who was once again on his back with his neck arched back as far as it could go so Vanessa could press open-mouth kisses to his scruffy face. Because Derek hadn’t shaved because Stiles had asked him not too because they would be on vacation and Stiles likes the feel of Derek’s facial hair. 

But the sight of Vanessa playing with Derek, and Derek being so incredibly receptive to it, slowly began to melt away the layers of anger that had built up within him. 

It was ultimately Vanessa who broke the moment when she saw her dad holding a bottle. She wrapped a small fist in Derek’s thick hair and pulled, pointing at the bottle and making an excited sound before putting her small pink mouth back on Derek’s forehead. 

“I think she wants you to feed her,” Laura remarked, taking the bottle from a rather reluctant Paul and handing it to Derek. Stiles did not miss the fond look in her eyes as Derek took the bottle wordlessly and scooped Vanessa into his arms. “You think you can handle this, little brother?”

Derek smiled at Laura. “It’s only until Sunday. We should be fine.” He cut his attention to Stiles, who felt the temperature of the entire room kick up about a million degrees because Derek should not look so perfect holding a 14-month old in his arms as she nursed her bottle. Normally, Stiles would launch into a long-winded speech about how bottles ruin a child’s teeth, but given that she was a werewolf, he didn’t think her bottle would have any effect on her tooth development. Besides, it did look rather adorable. 

“Yea, we’ll be great.” He reassured Laura and Paul. “Scott’s gonna help out to, isn’t that right?”

“Sure! I love kids!” Scott’s sincerity hurt Stiles deeper than he cared to admit. When he glanced back at Derek, he saw the smile falter before he regained his composure to usher his sister and brother-in-law out the door. Stiles got the impression that Paul was way more attached to Vanessa than most normal human men were to their first child, and despite Laura insisting there was no way they could take Vanessa to their conference, Stiles had it on good authority that Laura actually wanted to leave Vanessa with Derek so Paul would realize that everything would be ok if they left Vanessa behind. She would not have separation anxiety issues, and she would not develop a resentful attitude at either of them for ‘abandoning’ her. She was a baby, not a broody teenager. 

Stiles chuckled at the thought of Paul and a teenage Vanessa. He told Scott once he felt safe Laura was out of earshot. 

“Oh my- she’s probably going to turn out like a mini-Derek.” His eyes widened. “Paul is going to have a fun time with that.”

Stiles was sure they would ALL have fun with that. And by fun, he meant not. 

\- - - - 

Despite his efforts to get Scott to stay for lunch, Scott finally caught on to why his presence was requested and quickly exited the building. Stiles couldn’t blame him. He would do the same thing if he could. It really wasn’t because Stiles didn’t like kids, or babies, he truly did. He loved Vanessa: she laughed more often than she cried, which Stiles only heard once because she got scared during a thunderstorm and shifted, effectively terrifying Paul since he didn’t think babies could shift. It took both Derek AND Laura almost a full half hour to calm her down enough so she could shift back into a human. He learned that children couldn’t shift willingly until they turned 5 or 6, but given stressful circumstances and strong emotional situations, a shift could happen. Laura and Paul were very careful about where they went because of it. 

Stiles took a deep breath before walking into the kitchen where Vanessa crawled on the floor as Derek prepared lunch. She may have only been 14 months, but she was definitely more mature than most toddlers. Stiles didn’t understand why she insisted on crawling when she could walk, or used non-verbal communication when he knew full well she could use words.  

“Isn’t it time for her to take a nap or something?” He winced at how bitchy it sounded and wanted to take it back the second he said it. Vanessa looked at him for a split second before crawling back between Derek’s legs. 

“Yea, I was going to make an omelette for us before I put her down.” His voice was soft, not reacting to Stiles’ tone or attitude. It made Stiles feel worse because the rational part of him knew it wasn’t entirely Derek’s fault their weekend got cancelled. But Stiles took it out on him anyway, and Derek just accepted it. 

He was an asshole who didn’t deserve Derek, and he needed to get over his disappointment and make the best of this weekend. 

He barely got within kissing distance of the back of Derek’s neck when a sharp pain shot up his leg. The source: tiny sharp teeth digging into his calf through his jeans. His reaction: not good. 

“GOD DAMMIT!” The teeth unlatched themselves as Stiles wretched his leg away, pulling up his pant leg enough to see four pinpricks oozing trails of blood toward his sock. 

“Vanessa!” Derek shut off the stove and hauled the small child up off the floor, staring at her with ice blue eyes. “No biting!” 

Derek didn’t shout the way Stiles had done, but the effect his voice had got the message across loud and clear. Vanessa’s teeth receded but her eyes stayed amber. According to everything Stiles had learned about werebabies, they could understand commands as well as any full grown wolf. 

Vanessa’s features fell and she refused to meet Derek’s eyes, instead choosing to reach for Derek’s shoulders so she could bury her face in his neck. 

“I think Uncle Stiles is the one who needs this hug, Vanessa.” He cast a pleading look at Stiles as he tried to coax her head up. 

Stiles grabbed some paper towels and wet them so he could wipe up the blood. The bite wasn’t even that deep; the jeans took the brunt of the damage. “It’s fine, I promise. I’m sorry I raised my voice.” When he looked up again, Derek was right in front of him and Vanessa placed a small hand on Stiles’ cheek. It did not make Stiles’ heart clench up. 

“Sowee, Un’l Sti.”

He didn’t get the chance to respond before she buried her head back into Derek’s neck. Stiles pressed a hand to her back and felt her racing heart beneath his palm. He leaned in and placed a reassuring kiss on the back of her head, feeling her heartbeat slow incrementally. 

“It’s ok, baby girl. Just remember Uncle Stiles is human.”

The relieved look on Derek’s face softened Stiles’ resolve to stay upset about their lost weekend even more. It really wasn’t that big a deal. It was one weekend among hundreds. Family, and moments like this, were more important than some weekend cabin retreat. 

Slightly more important, because Stiles had really wanted to cross off some things on his bucket list of sex. 

“I’m going to get her to bed. You can start eating if you want. I can hear your stomach.” A smile pulled at Derek’s mouth for a second as he made a aborted move forward to kiss Stiles before thinking better of it with a near-passed out child in his arms. 

Stiles waved him off. “I’ll get everything set up, shouldn’t take that long.”

\- - - - 

Evidently, it did take that long because ten minutes later, Stiles was still sitting in the kitchen staring at Derek’s empty seat. He got up and silently made his way toward the guest room that was technically Vanessa’s room for when she came over. There were toys and stuffed animals, decorations on the wall, a crib from when she was a baby that they hadn’t found another home for, and a bed designed for toddlers and small children. A baby monitor sat on the small chest of drawers next to the bed with the matching one in Derek’s back pocket at all times unless they were sleeping, then it might have well have been glued to his hand. 

Stiles leaned against the wall outside the door, fully aware that Derek probably knew he was standing there but said nothing as Stiles tried to make out the whispers. 

“Where Lagan streams sing lullaby, there blows a lily fair. The twilight gleam is in her eyes, the night is on her hair…”

The lump forming in Stiles’ throat was definitely not a sign of anything. 

“She has my heart in thrall, no life I own, no liberty, with love is lord of all…”

Stiles pulled himself away from the wall and made his way back to the kitchen to wait for Derek. He sat down at the table and stared at his cold omelette, letting that thought he’d so adamantly pushed back fill his mind completely. In that moment of reflection, he realized his biggest fear was losing Derek. Not losing Derek in the sense of their breaking up or something unspeakable happening to one or both of them, although that was a daily fear in Stiles’ mind that Derek did his best to blot out. 

No, Stiles’ biggest fear was losing Derek to a small child like Vanessa. It was no secret that Derek wanted kids of his own one day, but Stiles was biologically male and it would take a miracle for him to naturally conceive one of Derek’s children, so it was either adoption or surrogacy, although Derek leaned toward surrogacy because bloodlines. They talked about it briefly when their relationship went from ‘committed boyfriends’ serious to ‘committed/moving in together/sharing a mortgage/joint bank accounts/calling the Sheriff ‘dad’/one step away from married’ serious. If they had a baby, Stiles was afraid Derek would forget all about him and there would be no more weekends away to just be with each other. He would spend his time singing lullabies to a dark-haired, green-eyed baby in the room that screamed ‘FOR FUTURE BABIES’ because Stiles didn’t realize that was the point of the room before Vanessa came into their lives. And Stiles might resent the child because they would be in constant contest for Derek’s attention but the child would always win because it would be Derek’s. Vanessa’s reaction to Stiles was a glimpse of what his future with Derek would be if they had a baby. 

By the time Derek emerged triumphant, Stiles’ head was buried in his arms on the table as he cried uncontrollably.

“Stiles? Why are you crying? What happened? Stiles, talk to me, please.” The terrified concern in Derek’s voice made him cry even harder as he tried to extract himself from probing hands checking to make sure he wasn’t injured.

“Stiles, please. Tell me what’s wrong. I know you’re mad because I ruined our weekend, I’m sorry. Please, I’ll make it up to you. Just, tell me why you’re crying like this…” Derek’s voice came out sounding so broken at believing himself to be the cause for Stiles’ breakdown, Stiles couldn’t stop himself from telling Derek everything: from how angry he was in the morning to his fear of losing him because he’d take second place to Derek’s baby. 

Before he could launch into his insecurities about how he felt he was an inadequate mate for Derek since he was human, he was silenced by Derek’s wet mouth on his, a loud rumble vibrating through Stiles’ body. Stiles went from pulling away to latching on for dear life as Derek picked them both up and made his way into their room, depositing Stiles on the unmade bed before pushing the door closed. 

“I am not *kiss* going to *kiss* abandon you.” Derek’s mouth and hands worked at almost lightning speed to rid himself and Stiles of their clothes until there was nothing but skin and sweat between them. “Just because we have a child. You’re my mate, Stiles. If you don’t want children, I have to respect that. But please, believe me when I say I would never put you second to anyone.”

Stiles couldn’t hold back a sob that tore through his core. “I’m sorry, I just- I wanted this weekend to be special and then seeing you with Vanessa on top of everything brought it all out.” He wrapped his arms and legs around Derek, the weight on top of him was crushing the air out of lungs. Derek’s hands pulled him even closer as their mouths clashed again in a desperate effort to convey what neither of them had the words to say. 

“I love you so much, Stiles… I can’t tell you how much…” Their eyes met, Derek’s blue with Stiles’ light brown, and Stiles _knew._ He felt a current extend out of his body into Derek’s and suddenly he couldn’t tell where he ended or where Derek started. The only thing that mattered was this. Something began taking them apart and putting them back in ways Stiles never experienced. He felt himself taking in pieces of Derek in exchange for giving up parts of himself. 

“Derek…” Stiles angled his head to catch Derek’s open mouth in other kiss before tilting his head back. This time felt different than any other time Stiles had bared his neck to Derek in submission. Before, it was playful. It was Stiles way of showing he trusted Derek, that he loved him. Now, Stiles felt raw energy coursing in his veins desperate to reach into Derek’s body and sink deep into his bones. Now, Stiles desperately needed Derek to _let go_. 

He didn’t speak, but he knew Derek heard him. He knew because teeth dug into the tender flesh at the juncture of his neck and shoulder. He knew because he sensed the sharp metallic taste of his own blood swim into his senses. It made him clutch harder at the beast in his arms as he pushed his way past a barrier he didn’t know existed until it dissipated behind his eyelids. His hips moved on their own in time with Derek’s almost brutal pace. It wasn’t a race to see who could get there the fastest, and both of them were too high-strung to think about anything else except the orgasm waiting on the horizon. 

It wasn’t until Derek reached between them and gripped both of their throbbing cocks in his clawed hand and stroked once that Stiles let go, with Derek following him over.

\- - - - 

When Stiles opened his eyes after what felt like an eternity, he felt like he was seeing Derek for the first time. 

He hadn’t shifted back to human yet, and Stiles had never seen anything more beautiful. He knew Derek was self-conscious about Stiles seeing him like this in bed since he worried he would inadvertently hurt him. 

“You’re beautiful…”

Stiles swore Derek blushed as he concentrated on shifting back. 

“No, not yet. Just…” He leaned up and kissed the mouth full of razor sharp teeth that he knew would never harm him. “Stay like this for a while…” The hair on his head was slightly coarser, almost like the stubble on his face after not shaving for a week. The rest of Derek’s body was covered in similar hair, soft despite its thickness. Stiles didn’t realize just how much he loved having a wolfed-out Derek laying on top of him, naked. 

A quiet rumble vibrated Stiles’ body. He laughed out loud when he realized what it was. 

“We should probably get some food in you before you start gnawing on me for food purposes.”

Derek licked across the healing bite mark on Stiles’ neck. “I’m sorry.”

Stiles stopped laughed and shifted beneath Derek until they were side by side. “It’s not your fault. I should have said something sooner-“

“No, it’s not-“ Derek sighed and sat up. “You’re it for me, Stiles. I don’t want to think about what life would be like without you; I don’t want to wake up and have you not be here.” 

Stiles pushed himself up, ignoring the tight feeling in his neck and shoulder, and rested his cheek on Derek’s shoulder. “I’m not going anywhere, Derek. Believe me.”

“I don’t want kids if it means losing you.”

Stiles swung around, positioning himself between Derek’s thighs and staring down a very pained looking werewolf. “You listen to me: I am never putting an ultimatum on you over this. I want EVERYTHING you want. I may have my insecurities, but I will never do that to you.” Derek’s hands came up to his biceps and squeezed gently.

“I know, Stiles. I know that now…”

“Good,” Stiles felt his body come down as Derek’s hands moved to his back and pull him in. It was awkward, the position they were in, but Stiles could feel Derek’s heartbeat and willed his own to match it. “Because as mind-blowing as that was, I’d rather not do it with emotional stakes that high.”

Derek snorted as he shifted back, pulling Stiles’ face up to his own. “Same goes for you too. For as long as we’ve been together, we’re two of the most communication-stunted people I think anyone could ever meet.”

Before Stiles could formulate a retort, he heard the baby monitor crackle as a not-so-asleep Vanessa began humming the lullaby Derek had been singing to her earlier. His cheeks burned furiously as he pulled away from Derek to bury himself under the covers. 

“I totally forgot she was here and she probably heard everything and I am never going to be able to look at her without feeling guilty.”

A swat landed across his backside. 

“I blame you entirely,” he added, turning his head to see Derek pull on his boxers. 

“You can punish me for it later.” 

Stiles’ dick did not deserve this. “I’m going to take a cold shower before I feel less guilty about Vanessa being here.”

\- - - - - 

Sunday came too quickly and Stiles actually felt reluctant in letting Paul take Vanessa from him. Vanessa didn’t look all too pleased either judging by the high-pitched scream she let loose as soon as Stiles’ hand left her back. 

“Hey, no worries kiddo. We’ll come by later this week, ok?”

Vanessa nodded against Paul’s shoulder before rubbing her tired eyes. 

“She was good for you guys?” Laura asked, gathering up the three bags she’d brought over for the weekend. Derek nodded, handing over the new stuffed elephant Stiles insisted on buying for her on Saturday. 

“Yeah, she was an angel.”

Laura arched an eyebrow and looked at both of them, a mischievous smile playing at her lips. “So…how long before we’re making playdates?”

 

\- - - - - Three years later - - - - - 

“Stiles! I swear! If you do not get your ass in-“

“LANGUAGE, DEREK! He can understand you!”

Derek’s head thumped against the steering wheel. Repeatedly.

“Stiles, I promise. Everything is going to be fine. Just get in the car and take your weekend. We got this.” Laura reassured, shoving none-too-gently in the direction of the front door. “This isn’t our first rodeo.”

“I just-“

“STILES!” 

“Bye Jake! Daddy loves you! We’ll be back soon!” Jake looked up momentarily and waved, but then went back to stacking blocks with Vanessa. Stiles felt his heart break a little as Laura shut the door behind him. 

When he finally got to the car, Derek looked manic. 

“It’s like he didn’t even care.”

Derek huffed. “Stiles, he’s barely 18 months old. He’s not going to remember being left at Laura’s for five days.”

“Yeah but-“

The car lurched as Derek hit the brakes at the stop sign. He pulled on the parking brake and turned completely towards Stiles, taking his face into his warm hands. 

“Stiles.” His blue eyes stared into Stiles’ brown ones. “Do you remember when Vanessa stayed at our place the same weekend we’d planned to go to the mountains? And how she turned out just fine despite being left with us for three days?”

Stiles nodded as best he could, not breaking eye contact. “Yeah.”

Derek leaned forward and pressed his lips against Stiles’. “Jake is going to be fine.”

Tension leached out of Stiles’ body almost instantly. “Yeah, I know.”

“Ok.” Derek released Stiles after kissing him one last time, then released the parking brake. “And to think,” he added as he turned onto the main street. “You were the one worried about ME being too attached to the baby.”

Stiles felt his cheeks heat up as he slouched into the passenger seat. “It seemed like a valid fear at the time.”

“Should I be worried?”

Stiles reached over and laced his fingers over Derek’s. “Never. You and Jake are the best things to ever happen to me.”

They rode in silence for a while before Derek spoke again. 

“So…think we should have another?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'By Blood Alone' has taken an indefinite hiatus because the author can't reconcile how to get from POINT A to POINT B. It is not being abandoned, but it needs a little love.


	5. Circles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Dean Winchester, after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is taken from 'Circles' acoustic by Passenger. 
> 
> Forgive the alarming passage of time since my last post on anything. I am alive and well; summer is right around the corner. Must survive this week and giving final exams, and then vacation happens for the next 2.5 months. 
> 
> This is also unrevised by anyone other than myself. Please forgive any grammatical or punctuation errors.

 

      **Old age.**  

 

     Never how they imagined their lives, these two boys.  Two men, now.  Two older, somewhat wiser, wrinkled men.  Despite being the younger of the two, Sam looked older.  He says it’s because he spent more time worrying about Dean than Dean did; Dean spits back he spent more time worrying about Sammy and whatever trouble he managed to kick up in the five minutes he’s left alone.  Sam does cede the fact ( _yes Dean, it’s fact_ ) that Dean wears his age well despite the years of drinking and being thrown around by monsters. 

     Dean did come back from the dead though.  

     So did Sam. 

     Then, everything stopped.  Miracles were miracles, and possessions were left to the Church, and younger hunters.  Crowley stayed in Hell, Chuck ( _God, Dean. God._ ) stayed in Heaven.  Castiel dropped in for a visit now and then, if only to comment how different they looked and how everything stayed the same.  Then he would disappear, and Sam and Dean would pass the time wondering about the next time Cas would visit.

     This is how it was, now.  How it had been for a few years.  Several years.  They had landed themselves on a ranch in South Dakota, between the Black Hills and Badlands National Parks.  It had belonged to Ethel, a woman who’s husband (rest his soul), rode bulls for a living until his heart gave out.  She chose to stay on the ranch after his death: caring for horses belonging to wealthy families, teaching children how to ride, keeping a small garden for the local farmers market, training horses for racing or dressage.  Ethel decided to sell the ranch and the land after Bishop, the horse Jonas bought for her when they were young, died.  Much like Jonas, Bishop was out to pasture and he simply lay down and passed.  Neither of them had children so there was no one to inherit.  She said she didn’t feel right selling to people she’d never met.  Dean argues it was pure coincidence they passed by her ranch when the Impala’s battery died and the ‘For Sale’ sign was being hammered into the earth;  Sam argues it was divine intervention.  Ethel laughed and invited them in for supper.  She said Dean had Jonas’ laugh and Sam had his eyes.  She said they looked like they could be brothers. 

     Neither of them said anything.  Probably because they were eating.  Dean’s foot had nudged closer to Sam’s as he lifted a full fork of potatoes into his mouth, simultaneously asking how much the ranch was selling for, reading Sam’s mind.  

     So Ethel sold them the ranch for pennies, and the brothers found themselves a new line of work.  Being close to both the Black Hills and the Badlands, and having their ‘background,’ Sam went out and did the occasional guided tour during the summer months to help out the rangers, Dean sometimes helped track lost hikers.  The brothers had a standing invitation to visit the Pine Ridge Reservation whenever they found themselves nearby.  

     Years ago, Sam and Dean had been chasing a wendigo in the area, and stumbled across a stranded group of Oglala Lakota.  Turned out they were being haunted by restless spirits belonging to some of those massacred at Wounded Knee in the late 19th century.  Sam researched rituals, Dean laid the lines.  Everyone walked away, and some spirits met a peaceful afterlife. The 'wendigo' wasn't a 'wendigo;' it was a lone vampire.  Dean was almost upset at how simple the hunt was. Almost. 

     

     And then back again… settling down.  

     It was something Dean still was not quite used to.  Not having to track anything inhuman, no murders caused by supernatural means.  Sam fell into it too easily, he thought.  They argued about it for months until finally they both realized there was no use.  They had been in one place for longer than three months without having to leave for extended periods of time.  

 

     This wasn’t ‘home base’.  This was simply _home_. 

 

     Now… here they were.  The sun slowly dipped behind the green horizon.  The horses were dozing in the barn, ranch hands finished packing the trailer for the race in Sioux Falls.  Dean would be going, Sam would stay behind.  Sitting in a car for long periods (5.5 hours) never does the arthritis in his knees any good.  Sam blames the hours stuck in the Impala; Dean blames Sam’s moose-like stature.  

_Bitch._

_Jerk._

     Rook, their Appaloosa, the one Sam wanted because the spots reminded him of a great dane, was competing in Sioux Falls in a few days.  It was a small race, nothing high stakes.  Rook was older, and Sam didn’t want to strain him.  In the beginning, Sam wanted Rook to race the way a dog owner did agility training with his dog.  He didn’t want fame and fortune, although they had earned themselves a tidy sum racing him (and a few others) in recent years.  Offers to stud him out where constant from the first time he stepped out and won a blue ribbon to now, especially considering his current age.  But something never sat right with Dean about studding out Rook.  Sam had made the argument that it was ‘a thing’ in horse racing: the breeding, the development of champions and bloodlines.  It would leave a legacy.  And if Dean wanted, they could look into finding a ‘suitable female’ for Rook and they could keep the offspring for themselves.  

 

     Sam will never forget Dean’s face that night. 

 

     After some searching and negotiating, they found a suitable mate: Desdemona.  Her owner was a stage actor, that was all Dean wanted to hear.  Sam and the lawyers drew up the contract, both parties signed.  When the colt was born, it was a female.  Dean named her Kathmandu.  Sam knows Dean didn’t see his reaction, but the old doctor who helped deliver her did.  He patted Sam’s shoulder on his way out.  

     ‘You found yourself a good man, son.’

     When Dean fell asleep that same night, Sam prayed.  When Castiel appeared, Sam cried.  

 

     Now… the sun left a bright orange seam on the darkened horizon.  Dean stood at the window, customary mug of hot chocolate in his hand, scanning the fields.  His eyes weren’t the same as they used to be, but he wore his glasses faithfully ever since Sam told him they made him look like a professor, especially when paired with the lines around his eyes.  

 _Seasoned_. _Inspiring. Wise._

     There was more gray in his hair than brown, and the wrinkles on his hands camouflaged the scars on his knuckles.  Nobody asked about their past lives anymore.  As far as anyone knew, they started out as mechanics in Lawrence, Kansas, then became wilderness guides in Alaska, boat mechanics on the Great Lakes, and even did a stint hunting gators in Louisiana.  The stories grew longer as they grew older.  Dean wondered sometimes what would be left of them, when they finally passed on.  Sam doesn’t wonder that, not anymore, but he humors Dean with stories about how all the colts born of Rook will have ridiculous names and win so many championships that no one will remember horse racing before the Winchesters.  

     Dean finds it hilarious that baby horses are called ‘colts.’

     Sam corrects him and says the technical term is ‘foal.’

     Dean retorts by stating it sounds like he’s talking about birds.

     Sam rolls his eyes and says ‘fowl.’

     Dean’s eyes twinkle behind his glasses.  

     Sam doesn’t need to ask what he’s thinking. 

     The empty mug is left in the sink, the remaining chocolate lazily sliding over the lip, waiting to be caught. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The horse's name, Kathmandu, is a reference to the song by Bob Seger of the same name. I take the song (and title) to mean that Kathmandu is used to represent a place far away where no one will bother you. It's the capital city of Nepal, Nepal being a country known for practicing Buddhism. The city name itself (depending on translation/spelling of name) can mean 'wooden shelter' or 'city of light'.
> 
> The spacing between lines / paragraphs is intentional. I didn't want to clutter the writing with lines or dashes but if its distracting - I will edit.


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